Poisoned Veins, Vengeful Hearts
by Scriptare
Summary: Harry Potter meet Crank. Just your average Boy-Who-Lived, Harry is poisoned by an ambitious Draco Malfoy setting off a chain of events that include rampant, explosive and over-the-top violence, gratuitous language and sex. Chap 1 EDITED. HP/NM/?
1. Just Another One of Those Days

**Author's Notes:** Well, here I am with another story. I was working away on Chapter 2 of Vincit Omnia Veritas (rather diligently I might add!) when a real life buddy of mine called up and begged me to go with him to the theatre to watch Crank 2. I hadn't seen the first one at that point, and I promised him that I would go but only after I saw the first. Well, I did, fell in love with it, went to see the second and had this crazy idea with a Harry Potter crossover of sorts.

The result? Poisoned Veins, Vengeful Hearts!

The name is a modified version of one of the tag lines used for the first Crank installment.

However, there are a few things to note. First, it isn't a proper crossover since I will NOT be using any of the characters used in Crank but merely translating them into the HP world. For example, Harry Potter will be channeling Chev Chelios. Second, the chapters will be relatively short and sweet in keeping with the machinegun speed pacing of the movie. Lastly, this fic is in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. If you've seen the movie, you'll know why.

**Summary:** Harry Potter meet Crank. Just your average Boy-Who-Lived, Harry is poisoned by an ambitious Draco Malfoy setting off a chain of events that include rampant, explosive and over-the-top violence, gratuitous language and sex. If he stops, he dies. HP/NM/?

**Warnings:** Ridiculous, over-the-top and unrealistic violence, sex and innuendo, and gratuitous language! Just like the movie.

**Pairings:** Harry/Narcissa/?

HOWEVER, I might add another girl and for the first (and probably the last) time, I'm asking the reviewers for help on this one. Who should it be? Luna? Fleur? Daphne? Go wild.

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**Chapter 1: Just Another One of Those Days**

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A heartbeat.

And another.

A thud, thump sequence.

Inexorably slow and unbearably loud, the syncopated beat was a resonating cadence within the deepest recesses of his ears, like an organic subwoofer streaming the four working atriums of his heart.

Harry blinked languidly, once, and then twice. His bloodshot eyes weakly protested the faint background light that seemed to emanate from everywhere within his room; a veritable jail cell with prison windows and guillotine doors.

_Christ, it's another one of those days._

Groaning, he clumsily crawled out of the tangled sheets of his undersized twin bed, bare-chested and donning only an oversized pair of black sweatpants over his boxers. His bed hair was as unruly as it ever was, indistinguishable from the norm.

_Fucking headaches._

Thud, thump.

He massaged his temples as if willing the headache away with pressure point application, wistfully wondering if the Dursley's kept a stock of painkillers downstairs.

His breath was coming short and hard as if he had just ran a marathon. Or in a less likely event, as if he had, not of his own volition, developed aquatic respiration. He felt as if he was supposed to be breathing from oxygen dissolved in solvent water and not atmospheric air; a homogeneous mixture of non-volatile nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide and various other natural and synthetic chemicals.

Bringing his trembling hands to his face, he noticed they were damp, swathed by a thin film of cold sweat. Hastily wiping them on his pants, he licked his cracked lips. His mouth was arid like wrinkled dragon scale and infused with the bile rising taste of copper and rust.

Without warning, an immense ache pulsated within his chest and he gasped breathily, bowed over and stooped toward the ground.

Thud, thump.

_What the HELL is wrong with me?_

He groped blindly for his glasses on his dilapidated bedside cabinet and shoved his wand into the belt line of his sweats. The battered spectacles in place on the bridge of his nose, he walked in jerking half steps toward the door as the image of his room blurred and contorted around the edges.

"Shit..."

Panicking, he bodily lunged into the door as his magic flared uncontrollably from within him, desperate for escape. An echoing crack and he burst through the threshold of his room nearly stumbling to the floor from the unexpected absence of an opposite force. The multi-layer system of door locks were sheared cleanly in halves as fragments of the plank frame littered the carpeted floor.

Thud, thump.

Cursing, he struggled his way down the darkened hall of an early morning, the echoing steps of his dragging feet like jackhammers against his skull cavity; unrelenting and jaw-clenching.

Using the immaculate seashell white wall as a guide, he finally reached the stairs, a most unpromising prospect in his condition.

_Oh for the love of... god damn stairs._

He tentatively inched down the first step, an iron fisted grip on the flimsy banister.

Success.

He took another step, slipping his hands down the wooden railing cautiously as he breathed a small groan of effort.

And then another step followed, with the same shuffling hands.

Thud, thump.

His heart lurched painfully within his chest cavity – imploding into a microdot before frantically seeking egress from his ribcage – and he immediately released his support to clutch the left side of his chest, realizing his spontaneous mistake far too late.

_Oh fuck...!_

Stifling a yell, he curled his body forward into the momentum of his descent, lowering his head into his chest, as his hands shielded his upper body. He barrel-rolled down the remaining steps, each a blunted claymore against his tired bones and bruised muscles, grunting as every plane struck him.

The ungraceful fall was a mercifully brief one, but it still left him moaning, and again wondering if the medication he had hoped for was somewhere nearby; perhaps the whole bottle and a bathtub of water in one go.

_That fucking hurt._

He valiantly fought to upright himself, using the well-worn banister as a foundational post.

Finally standing, he paused, perusing his body for injuries. He finished his amateur scan only moments later and was grimly satisfied that, at least superficially, he only retained contusions and minor scratches. Nothing in his body felt broken or loose. Although he didn't have the necessary medical training to be confident of such findings, as long as he could move with relative ease and comfort, he wasn't bothered by it.

For now.

After everything he had been through, he was used to living with a body that wasn't fully functional.

Limping slightly and clutching his chest again, he trudged into the living room, grasping at random objects for support with his free hand. Picture frames fell with shattering crashes and a clay potted plant smashed against the cherry wood floor, the fertile soil splashed in clumps against it and the inherent moisture acting as a pseudo-adhesive.

He reached the three seat couch and dropped head first into it.

Thud, thump.

He feebly controlled his exhales and inhales, failing in deepening them.

_Why does my chest feel like its on fire?_

Conceding his futile attempt of diaphragm control, he rotated his head in both directions, loosening the knotted muscles in his neck as another thousand questions bombarded him.

_Why do I feel so sick?_

_Where was I last night?_

_What the hell IS going on?_

He faced outward from the cheap leather pillows, a buzzing warm cheek against the cool butter-smooth skin of the three-seater. It was then his emerald orbs locked on to a strange device heedlessly left on the oak-wood glass-top coffee table with a scrap of parchment pinched underneath it.

_A pensieve? Here at the Dursley's?_

He reached out and seized what he believed to be a pensieve, only to recognize that its form factor was too small to be a powerfully imbued object like the memory vessel. Yet, within the matchbook sized urn, the same flowing transparent silver essence of a stored memory, concrete as it was intangible, bubbled within.

He reached for the note next. Inscribed in black ink was a profoundly simple: "FUCK YOU".

Frowning, he flicked the parchment back on to the table.

He studied the pensieve-like object, unsure of what was required to activate it. Deciding on a tactic that involved him jumping feet first with his hands shielding his manhood, he mustered his Gryffindor courage and carefully prodded the swirling mass of quicksilver with his finger.

The effect was immediate. A scalding throb shot through his index and into his hand as he released the memory container with a muffled yelp. He jumped into a sitting position, vigorously shaking his spell burned manus in the air.

_What a stroke of genius that was._

Harry's curiosity amplified as he noticed that the damnable vessel, instead of falling to the floor as expected, remained stubbornly suspended in the air while flashes of magical energy illuminated the room in vacillating flickers. The silver plasma within erupted from the diminutive device and rapidly formed two indistinct humanoid shapes.

The effervescent cloud coalesced, the edges sharpening and the silver-white mass gradually acquired colour. Just seconds later, the reaction was complete. Much to Harry's astonishment and disgust, a smirking Draco Malfoy with arms folded in smug triumph and an emotionless Gregory Goyle wielding a beater bat loomed over him.

"Is it recording now?" asked Malfoy impatiently, seemingly to Harry.

Somewhere in the background, there was a vague grunt. By process of elimination, Harry guessed it was Crabbe who was 'filming' this memory.

Malfoy laughed mirthlessly. "Well, well, well... Potty, how are things?"

Harry growled at the memory Malfoy.

_I've been better. A hell of a lot better._

"Ah, never mind. It's so unfortunate this is only a memory." Malfoy clapped his hands together, his smirk becoming a foreboding smile. "Potter... Harry... I can call you Harry right?"

_No you may not you smug little shit._

Malfoy became contemplative, a rarity. "Hmm, I guess it doesn't really matter... I mean, seeing as your about to die."

Harry stared hard at the recollection, disbelieving.

"Oh yes, my _dear_ Harry." The ferret leaned forward, inches away from the real Boy-Who-Lived. "You will die."

Harry snorted. "You're a bloody muppet for the melodramatic, you know that? Bloody pure-blooded sensibilities."

The recorded figures ignored him. "Don't believe me? I'd say you aren't feeling so good right now. Am I wrong?"

As if on cue, Harry clutched his chest again, another shot of pulsating pain wracking his torso while beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead. His perspiration was stinging his scar shaped in the infamous lightning bolt, both an emblem of reverence and a revolting relic of the first war.

"Let's see..." Malfoy concentrated, his face contorting. "Chest pains, cold sweat, impaired motor movement, shortness of breath, dry mouth... need I go on?"

Not bothering for an answer, Malfoy reached into his silk robes, pulling out a syringe filled with a crystal clear water-like liquid; a canister bearing lethal injection."Not that I need to. Watch."

The 'memory camera' panned to the right and down as Malfoy shuffled over to remain within view, his pompous ass self salivating within the lime light. Finally coming to a stop, the immobile and unresponsive body of a face down Harry – himself – came into the scene, Malfoy crouching over him.

"A sleeping Potty. So cute!" Malfoy mockingly gushed.

_You have to be fucking kidding me._

Harry suddenly froze, shocked at the location of the memory. His past self lay on a lumpy springboard mattress, supported by a metal frame with chipping paint and rusting metal underneath, and in a room no larger than a walk-in closet, the same one he had struggled to depart from only minutes ago.

_How'd he get into Privet Drive?_

Malfoy's drawling voice, tinted with pubescent cracking, steered Harry back to the memory. "Normally, I abhor such muggle methods, but this seems oddly appropriate for you, _Harry_."

Bringing the syringe to bear, Malfoy paused just above Harry's neck. He looked askance at the camera, smirking.

"Watch carefully Harry. I'm only able to do this once."

Malfoy inserted the needle leisurely into the neck of Harry's memory self, gleefully injecting the poison into the Chosen One's circulatory system.

_Son of a..._

The real Harry subconsciously massaged the back of his neck.

Howling in delight, Malfoy – the ever so subtle un-Slytherin – taunted Harry by shaking a now empty syringe. "I bet you would love to know what this is, wouldn't you? I'll admit, I have no clue, but Sevs sends his love."

"You mean..."

"That's right," crowed Malfoy, answering Harry's unheard question. "Professor Snape made this, this... whatever it is. I like to think of it as snake venom. Deadly, seductive and efficient."

Then, it dawned on him, a lucid comprehension that vaporised away into acidic vehemence. The hit had been planned by someone far above Malfoy's pay grade with Snape as a willing accomplice.

It was the same someone who not only unceasingly protected Snape with illogic that would have dumbfounded Professor Trelawney, but who had fervently insisted upon Harry's return to Privet Drive over the Christmas break.

Only a select few knew where Harry lived during the summer holidays, and none of them were in the league of Voldemort. How Malfoy managed to find him when the Dark Bastard he grovelled to on a bended knee could not, only lent credibility to his theory. That and the contrived telling of the prophecy at the end of last year, suspicious to the highest degree, he could now readily confirm as another rung on the rope ladder of deceit; the story of his life.

Molten anger blinded Harry as his mental capacities were dictated by irrational hate of all things magic up to that point in his life.

_You old fucker..._

"How do you like that Harry? How do you like being poisoned in your sleep by a Malfoy? Being bitten by the snake?" Malfoy was incessantly gloating now. "Can you feel the venom flowing through your veins? The cold sweat on your hands? Your starving lungs cut off from air? The unquenchable slow burn in your chest?"

_All of you, god damn fuckers._

Malfoy, patting his gorilla bodyguard on his arched back, whooped. "Damn Goyle, you got Potter pretty good. I should ask father to get you a beater spot on the Falcons."

Harry zoned out the Slytherin's ramblings as further realizations surfaced within him.

_If I die, Voldemort wins..._

_If Voldemort wins, more people will die..._

_My friends... Hermione, Ron... My family... Sirius, Lupin..._

His attention diverted from Harry, the Malfoy heir pondered to Goyle. "I wonder if Sevvie will brew me more of this... delightful cocktail."

Harry barely heard him, still lost in his reverie.

_But what does Dumbledore stand to gain? Or is it just a coincidence?_

_It doesn't matter now; everyone is going to die because you fucked up Harry._

_But I can't die. The prophesy..._

_Fuck the prophesy and fuck Dumbledore. You've just taken a needle into the neck in your safe house, the same one Dumbledore has said, over and over, was fail proof. The old man has sold you out. And now, you're going to die._

_Then, the prophesy... it was a lie?_

_Apparently._

_Harry blinked, and then again, owlishly._

_But that doesn't make sense._

_Regardless, you're a dead man walking, and you need to get your ass moving if you hope to accomplish anything useful with the time you have left. _

Harry relented to his inner self's logic and a soothing sense of numbness that drummed in time with his quivering heart, rose to the surface of his mindscape, a chilling acceptance that was the deathly calm before the raging storm.

Thud, thump.

_I'm going to die._

_You are._

_A small smile escaped Harry, a twisted feeling of determination surging through him._

_But, I won't let Voldemort win._

_No?_

_Not if I can help it._

Malfoy was still laughing at his so-called brilliance, while mentioning references to Shakespeare, the protagonist poisoning his enemies while they slumbered; unaware they were soon to be dead.

_So, what are you going to do then?_

_Work. I'm going to work. If I die, they're coming with me._

_Every one of them?_

_A pregnant pause; the turning point of the rest of his life was upon the cutting table and utterly irrevocable. And really, he had nothing to lose by trying._

_Every. Single. One._

Growing bored, Malfoy returned to the camera. "Oh Harry? You don't have to worry about your relatives. We took the liberty of disposing of them for you. I know how horrid it must have been to live with... _muggles_." He smirked. "Of course, we had to use _your_ wand."

_Fucking wonderful, now the ministry is involved. This just got harder._

_Harry mentally added another strike to his rapidly inflating list of burgeoning problems._

"You might also be wondering why I left you alive."

_Predictable answer? It's more fun for you, bloody ferret._

Malfoy grinned sadistically. "It's more fun this way. Knowing that you suffered before the end."

Harry sighed.

_Like an open book._

Sneering, Malfoy finished with parting words for the reluctant hero. "Die well Harry. My only regret is not being there to see it."

The quality of the memory film began to diminish as the natural spectrum of colour returned to its airy and monotone silver-white state. The images of Malfoy and Goyle began to distort and wave, while their voices fluctuated from screeching high to inhumanely low.

"Remember Harry. Die well!"

With a soft hiss, the memory was gone. The diminutive pensieve soon followed with a blinding flash, presumably destroying itself or teleporting itself back to the Malfoy's luxurious mansion. Not even Draco Malfoy, the least Slytherin-like Snake to walk Hogwarts in the last millennium, was idiotic enough or blinded enough by his throbbing ego to leave behind incriminating evidence.

The Boy-Who-Lived stared into the wall, just beyond where the recorded recollection took place, a million more thoughts assailing him with big bore rifle velocity.

Frustrated, he slammed his leg into the coffee table, his magic bursting through the tensile chords of his muscled thighs and calves as he utterly demolished the living room piece, a haphazard pile of powdered white sand the only visible indication that the table had existed.

_My life has turned out like a 24/7 action movie... bad guys and betrayal, days of non-stop agony for the hero - no, the protagonist... _

_And __it just HAD to be one of THOSE days._

_God._

_Fucking._

_Damn it._


	2. The First Casualty

**Author's Notes: **This chapter came along fairly easily, but after getting about halfway through it, I realized that I had reverted back to my older writing style and pacing. I sincerely hope this doesn't deter any readers from it. I also pray that I portrayed the characters well since some of the major players are introduced in this chapter. Dumbledore will be pseudo-evil!

Also, the votes for the pairings thus far:

**Harry/Narcissa/Daphne - 3  
Harry/Narcissa/Fleur - 3  
Harry/Narcissa Only - 2  
Harry/Narcissa/Luna - 1**

I'm not quite at the part where I begin to write about the people involved in the pairings so please vote! This is a very VERY casual fic for me to write so I'm up for requests and It'd be fun if the reviewers were involved anyway.

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**Chapter 2: The First Casualty**

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Dumbledore was at peace with the comings and goings of a world on the brink of an overshadowing conflict that reeked of apocalypse, five minutes to midnight.

And he revelled in it.

He thrived upon the red tape carnage, the political byplays, the black op missives, the hammer and sickle that was the palpable fear of a nation unwilling to stand firm for any ideology not within the expectations of a pure-blooded society.

Under the Earthen core pressure of nomenclature bestowed by the media – the Leader of the Light – he emerged, and would continue to rise, victorious with gushing accolades falling about his feet in droves.

The ominous tolling of the bells had arisen over the horizon, the Lionheart shield of Constantinople lives torn asunder, the war renewed with refreshed vigour, and he was at the fore front, prepared to lead his armies through to an arrogantly preconceived victory.

A sinfully proud man of a hundred and fourteen distinguished years, praised conqueror of a Germanic dark lord, headmaster of the acclaimed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Grand sorcerer, he was the head figure of the wizarding world, the White King among the unwitting chess pieces he so masterfully controlled. He was a Zeus among an imposing pantheon of prime ministers, presidents, kings and queens, dictators and oppressors, capitalists and communists, the religious and the apathetic, and major governmental branches in all four corners of the globe.

Yet, for all of his enormous influence and nausea generating heights of his standing, he was, somehow, entangled in an off-the-record interrogation, led by an irate auror, a Minister of Magic exhibiting the early signs of rabies, and his bloated undersecretary who resembled an enraged toad in heat. It was a piteous setback easily circumvented with ample doses of legal obscurity and childlike absurdity, but the squandered time still aggravated him to no end.

Otherwise, all was well.

Harry Potter was, by this time, irrevocably on his one-way, destination only course to a crucial death – one that would void the prophecy. It was a heinously drastic method in ending the war before the bloodbath slaughter even began, but desperate times called for radical and unpopular measures, or so Dumbledore thought.

Moreover, he reasoned that the ministry had forced this unfavourable hand out of him by refusing to acknowledge Voldemort's return despite the substantial, albeit, circumstantial evidence that existed.

The prophecy, as impotent as it was beyond the confines of ethereal magic, clearly outlined the major players involved in the second coming of war, and the conditions attached to overcome the magical bindings of the oral law, specific to its era and the living.

One of them had to die for any triumph of his own to exist, whether it was Harry or Voldemort, Dumbledore didn't care. He held no bias, no predetermined predilection to any side despite leading the office of Light. He chose practically, and with that in mind, he considered the complexity in manipulating an assassination that still held true to the conditions stipulated by the prophecy and his dwindling resources.

Harry James Potter was the ideal choice.

If there was anything that could soothe the tiniest quantum of conscience, the most molecular of his manifested regret that Dumbledore harboured on his sleeve; it was Harry's passing or rather, the state of his passing.

In his substantial fortress of a mind, it was to his understanding that death incurred by the poison concocted by Severus Snape would be mercifully free of human feeling. The heart would fall apart and become nothing more than suspended dead tissue, the nerve endings would be all shot to hell and frayed beyond the point of communication.

Although conceptually flawed, to him, it was like descending into an eternal slumber courtesy of the Draught of Living Death.

The victim in question would have adamantly disagreed considering the frequent chest pains that flared in time with his heart palpitations, the cold sweat and dry mouth along with the smorgasbord of other alarming symptoms that even one uneducated in the subtleties of medicine and health science would declare as frightening at best.

And, as a final proverbial nail in the coffin – a rubbing of salt in the open wound – Dumbledore even revealed to Harry the entire contents of the fated prophecy, foretold fifteen years ago, at the end of last year and after the debacle that was the Tri-wizarding Tournament. It was a gesture that conveyed surface trust and false authenticity disguised as mollifying comfort, while the boy, who appeared to be oblivious to his machinations, was distraught over the tragic death of a fellow student, Cedric Diggory of Hufflepuff.

It was a slap in the face, a carrot and the stick where no reward could be found with any path chosen, with any choice made. Harry would die anyway, and would go on to the next great adventure knowing the circumstances behind his fall, all the while contributing to Dumbledore's burgeoning reputation.

Indeed, despite his frustration of the ministry's meddling, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was _relatively_ content all things considered.

---

Harry headed into the unnaturally clean kitchen, monotonous and with a pomposity that could only stem from the high-horsed Dursley's and the surrounding neighbourhood; pretentious and supercilious.

The religiously polished floors, even in the dim light, reflected the ambient rays of a waking sun with an eye-wincing intensity. The mock four star ceramic dishes, cleaned the day before, and stacked with zealous care, were organized neatly upon the marble noir countertops and next to the stainless steel sink, featureless and mechanically bitter, like the personalities of the Dursley's themselves.

The air itself was faintly highlighted with a sickening lemon scent of industrial cleaner tainted by an eerie weight of death.

The bloodless remains of Aunt Petunia, broadened eyes forever preserved in fear, slumped on the seashell wall like a broken rag doll long forgotten by a child, and a rolling pin in hand, was the only mar upon the surreal room.

Thud, thump.

Gasping, Harry kneeled and stared blankly at the fallen body of his aunt, unfeeling and unrepentant. She was his mother's sister, his aunt, family by blood and had been one of the rare few that could make such a claim. Despite that, he could only stare with a numb sense of detachment, studying her in morbid fascination, with a likeness wholly more attributable to a peculiar lab specimen than familial bonds.

He knew, and acknowledged that deep within himself, even if distantly, he should have felt something, anything, not only to prove his humanity but his compassion as a conscious being and as a Gryffindor Lion.

As trite as it sounded, he thought he had a duty to his aunt and her memory, to somehow guide her to a peaceful rest from the side of the living. But as he tried to piece together a coherent thought, an unsaid _in memoriam _in the spirit of honouring the dead, he could only recall the negativity and passive evil of the house, the breathing nightmare on Privet Drive.

He could still remember the unrelenting beating he had to endure at the tender age of five for crying over a severely twisted ankle, the belt lashing at what would have normally been a precocious eight for surpassing Dudley in mathematics, the dislocated shoulder for being dragged through the house at an unusually weary ten. He didn't want to dwell on the memories, but like a recording without an option for pause or stop, the vile verbal assaults, the vicious cycle of neglect, physical and emotional abuse, and unfounded loathing for something he couldn't possibly understand played through his mind.

_Fuck that._

Harry shook his head free of the unpleasant thoughts. Gazing dispassionately at his aunt, he recited a modified _in memoriam._

"Aunt Petunia, you had an obligation to care for my well being and to raise me like any other loved child, if not a promise to me, most certainly to the memory of my mum – _your _fucking sister. You never beat me, but then again, you never even touched me if you could have helped it. You were an accessory to Vernon's 'work' and Dudley's ingrained brainwashing. You wanted nothing to do with me, scared you'd dirty your manicured hands with my ilk. You stayed in the shadows, watching but doing nothing. In effect, you made my life as miserable as possible because of what I was and who I came to represent. Fortunately, Karma is a bitch that has no compunction with avenging the tormented Auntie. Remember that as you rest in hell, to burn for all of eternity or so it goes."

Cold and clinical, he stood, curiously content as a morbid sense of tranquility and completeness enveloped him. Confirming the corpse as his Aunt Petunia, he moved on into the dining room, searching for his uncle and cousin and never once turning back for a second look.

---

"This is preposterous!" roared Fudge, spittle flying forth from his foaming mouth. "Potter is menace! His careless showman use of three – not one, but three! – killing curses just two hours ago proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt." He inhaled sharply. "And you want us to stand down? Of all the political manoeuvring, this is the worst!"

Umbridge nodded, ever the faithful ministry fly eater and undeclared Death Eater, corrupt to the core as her staircase chins danced in unison with her head. "I must agree with Cornelius on this matter Dumbledore. No one – not even the Boy-Who-Lived – is above the law. Why shouldn't we apprehend Mr. Potter on the charges of three counts of murder and three uses of an Unforgivable?" She cleared her throat delicately. "You've seen the unfavourable reactions Mr. Potter has exhibited to my position as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts."

Finishing on an overwhelmingly sweet pitch, she was positively gloating, as if she had swallowed a large fly laced with cocaine. Not that the wizards and witches of Britain ever had the pleasure of partaking the white granule powder that was also affectionately known as the _Whiz Bang._

_Ignoring your undeserved worth as a ministry official or death eater, it's because the poison hasn't quite had the time to circulate throughout Mr. Potter's body. I need you fools to find him dead, not alive. As they say, 'a dead man tells no tales'. Insurance would be prudent however..._

Eyes twinkling like strobe light retinas, Dumbledore instead responded, "Ah, but my dear Cornelius, the instruments here," The headmaster waved a lackadaisical hand over his mahogany desk, littered with strange silver items, some emitting smoke and others ringing ceaselessly, "Show that Mr. Potter has not left his muggle dwelling. If he truly was a criminal, or had turned criminal, why would he remain at the scene of the crime and – as the muggles say – while red handed?"

The irony behind Harry's standing as a law abiding citizen would be lost on all four them by the end of a blood-soaked and savage day.

The Minister sputtered unintelligently, his right eye twitching in translational ticks, clearly irritated and at a sudden loss for words. The question hung in the air uncomfortably, as obstinate as its asker.

Seeing a chance in furthering his ulterior agenda, Dumbledore popped a lemon drop and continued, "Perhaps Mr. Potter was attacked by his muggle custodians, and in a blind state of panic, used the first spell that came to mind."

"The killing curse?" exclaimed the auror in disbelief. "Surely, if such a spell is common knowledge to the boy, he should be detained for questioning for the sake of public safety and order."

Umbridge again nodded in agreement.

Dumbledore frowned, a theatrical device required of him to uphold his charade. "You cry public safety, worried what an undertrained boy of fifteen with an apparent disregard for the law will do to British wizarding society, yet the ministry has done nothing for _public safety_ in regards to the return of Voldemort, who, need I remind you, is by far the greater _mass murderer_."

Again, the awe-inspiring irony would be overlooked.

"You mean the _alleged _return Dumbledore," interjected Umbridge quickly, a hideous frown of her own across her prodigious face. "There is no proof. Absolutely none whatsoever that has shown he has actually returned. Rumours are a nasty thing Dumbledore."

_It amazes me how you can say that without batting an eye Dolores. Perhaps, I'll have a use for you..._

Fudge hastily rejoined the conversation at the prompting of his senior undersecretary, dragged out of his lame trance. "Dolores is correct. Unless you have physical evidence proving such an outlandish claim, and beyond the anecdotes of yourself and Mr. Potter, the public would be better off not in a state of mad hysteria."

"You truly believe that a blanket of ignorance is the superior state of the country?" questioned Dumbledore incredulously, a single eye brow raised. "Consider that there might be a grain of truth to my statements Cornelius, even if it is so small, it's invisible to the naked eye." He paused, and in afterthought, added, "Or at least, to you and your politicos."

This time, it was the venerated headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, whose images were depicted and bordered with lavish frames upon the aged walls of the office, who nodded in concurrence.

"What do you propose I do then?" Sweating profusely, Fudge procured a handkerchief from his overcoat, and wiped his glistening forehead. "The people are set in their ways. Bad news, especially the kind that may eventually turn out to be fear mongering, is just bad politics Dumbledore."

Discreet in his actions, Dumbledore glanced at his unconventional clock, planetary movements, universal expansion and background radiation dictating the temporal status of various dimensions including his own locality instead of the all too regular hour and minute hands.

_Two hours, seventeen minutes. The poison, according to Severus, takes roughly two hours and thirty minutes to take full effect, killing the victim. The swiftest ministry reaction time is two minutes. Given that, there's an eleven minute window for Harry to make contact unless he's silenced beforehand. Ah... Umbridge, I do have a use for you after all._

Dumbledore cautiously decided upon a slight modification to his plans which would also provide an assurance beyond the poison, an obtainment that would be most wise of him. Thus, he considered his next words carefully, well aware of the heavily modified Protean charm on Dolores Umbridge's sagging arm.

"Perhaps, we could come to a... compromise Cornelius."

---

"Hello Uncle Vernon. Dudley."

Harry leaned casually against the seashell wall of the dining room, a manner of bored indifference that was hardly appropriate for the grisly scene of a double homicide.

"How was dinner?"

His uncle lay prone over the turpentine lacquered table, shockingly modest, and unbefitting of a room lined with two-tone silk drapes and oriental rugs. His face, reminiscent of a troll's, was implanted within the frigidly cold meal, the silverware still within his pudgy grasp, as if he had been struck just before he could manage another slice.

Dudley had been blown back over his chair which had consequently snapped it into pieces as his cousin's gargantuan corpse lay sprawled against the varnished wood floor, an inverse situation from his father's.

"Just finished checking up on Aunt Petunia," drawled Harry conversationally. "In a bit of sad state I'm not sorry to say."

Of course, there was no response, not that it did anything to impede Harry from venting.

"You ever wonder what you could have done with your life uncle? Take a trip to somewhere exotic, away from the concrete and drills, and maybe – just maybe – had you the balls, gone out and done something for the sake of accomplishing nothing. The whole act of waking up and smelling the rose buds – the same fucking ones that have pricked my fingers since I was five if I recall correctly."

Harry laughed, and even to him, it sounded forced and uncomfortable. "Ah, but you got your kicks out of beating me didn't you? That magic rubbish? Day in and night out, with your hands and feet, and sometimes, particularly when you were feeling a little nasty or stressed, you took it out on me with a belt. The one with the cracked clasp, remember? I still have plenty of scars from that one. I think you even used the baseball bat once. I'm still not quite sure if the fracture is fully healed or if it even healed properly. Never did bother checking. I mean, fending off a man with a penchant for evil, taking a basilisk's tooth and piss venom into the arm, a hundred dementors in my face, participating in a bloody tournament rigged from the beginning and dealing with a squat bitch, a Methuselah tree shoved up her not so petite ass and with a face only a toad could love? Really puts thing into a real fucking bent sense of perspective, doesn't it?"

Silence.

"And Dudders! My _favourite _cousin," growled Harry sarcastically. "Following in the fucking elephant stomps of daddy dearest. He must be so proud, or would be if you both weren't deader than the sex life under this roof. A little inconvenient, sure, but you both had it coming. Whatever deity is watching, thanks for finally figuring it out."

Harry raised his head and hands to the heavens, feigning his acknowledgment of divine intervention.

"Now, I've got an unknown allotment of time left before I follow you lot to the grave. Oh, that'll be one hell of a reunion... one I might actually look forward to for once, but I digress."

"I'll be honest, death scares me a bit, but I think it does for anyone with anything to live for, but I'm this," Harry brought his thumb and index finger together, less than an inch away from touching. "Fucking close to throwing it all to the fire and going down burning like the devil."

Thud, thump.

Gritting his teeth, Harry walked unhurriedly toward a free seat. He sat down heavily, right next to his dead uncle, and breathed a small sigh of relief.

Harry reassuringly patted the unresponsive Uncle Vernon on his shoulder, or roughly where it would have been through the quicksand mass of fat, "I won't though. I've got friends to look after and family to protect. If that's what keeps me going, fine by me. If I can, I plan on taking every single fucker down with me who has ever done me wrong, or will inevitably do so in the future to the people I have grown to care for. When I'm gone I mean. You just happened to be a convenience done in by a _friend _of mine."

Harry inwardly cringed at the idea of truly being amiable with Draco Malfoy.

"Hopefully, when you're both cooking in the hot place below, you'll come to realize your mistakes and past transgressions against me and possibly, somewhere within those grease coated hearts of yours, you'll beg for forgiveness, or if not that, at least acknowledge you were a right pair of bastards without sizeable bollocks. But, that's asking for much isn't it?"

Visibly disgusted and with nothing left to say, Harry rose from his seat tenderly and turned away from the last of his relatives, cooling corpses with deadened eyes and bodies in the claws of rigor mortis. Again, he authenticated them as his blood relatives.

"Oh, why don't you look at the time? I apologize, I've overstayed my welcome. I've got to get my arse in gear. Ministry to run from, Death Eaters to slaughter, friends and family to protect, dark lords and headmasters to confront... you know how it is with freaks like me."

As Harry drew his wand to summon his remaining clothes, supplies and a number of household items he planned on converting into weapons, he froze. He was suddenly aware of the distinct and unmistakable sounds of apparition – sucking pops that fizzled for a second after – dimly coming through from the backyard.

_Shit, I've hung around for too long._

He bolted back through the kitchen, only lingering long enough to grab the boning knife and the Chef's general purpose blade, before he silently moved into place beside the back door which led out into the snow entrenched yard, and his unknown visitors.

Adrenaline, the fight-or-flight hormone centrally responsible in stressful situations, was pumping through his body at a million miles per hour, boosting his supply of oxygen and glucose to his brain and muscles, dilating his pupils and most importantly, increasing his heart rate as the thud-thump reverberation faded into nothingness, unnoticed by him.

---

"And what compromise would that be Dumbledore?" asked Fudge, suspicion dripping from every word.

"Come now Cornelius, I truly seek a compromise without the excess nonsense," reassured Dumbledore gently. He spoke in political jargon just in case. "A collective bargaining and shared betting chip between legal powers. You wish to avoid internal dissention as much as I, and as such, cooperation – open and honest cooperation – is key."

Dumbledore reached for another lemon drop from his miniature horde piled within a crystal chalice closest to him. "Surely, you don't hold me with such flippant disregard?"

"I don't. It would be my folly and overtly dangerous to do so," admitted Fudge. "But I have my position and the senior offices to look after. They invest a great deal in continued order and their own well being and I'm simply one man. I have to be wary of the people, especially people like you. I had to do my best to discredit you."

"As should be the case." Fudge tensed visibly, his hackles raised, but Dumbledore raised a placating hand. "It was not a threat Cornelius, just an affirmation. It is better to be safely insured than broken by foolish indifference is it not? I have a lot to lose, and as do you, but unlike you, I have the ability to rise again."

Fudge remained silent. As thoughtless as he was at times, he was clever enough to know when an opportunity came along wrapped in silver paper, conveniently tied off with a gold ribbon and completed with a diamond ring. The politician in him screamed at him to take it, or suffer the consequences there after.

"Really, we both stand to gain from this, why should I deceive you?"

Fudge said nothing of the matter, and instead, motioned him to continue with the proposition. "Go on then."

Dumbledore smiled, silently congratulating himself. "We both have wants Cornelius. You want access to Privet Drive for Mr. Potter's immediate arrest, and I want you to acknowledge Voldemort's return. It is not at all difficult to see what we can do here."

"You want me to issue an official notice of Voldemort's return, and in return, you'll allow me to arrest the Golden Boy? Just like that?" asked Fudge incredulously.

"Just like that."

"But... this... unbelievable," stammered the Minister. He stared at Dumbledore, suspicious once again. "That was far too easy."

"Who on Earth said this needed to be hard?"

Fudge shook his head. "In politics, easy means ambush. Easy translates into some level of deception Dumbledore."

"Look at it from where I sit Cornelius. We both stand to gain very easily. Should I be suspicious of you? I'll admit that's a possibility, but we need to trust each other on this matter," urged Dumbledore soothingly.

Fudge fell silent again. "I don't trust you. It's not in my nature as Minister to fall for that. But, I'll take my chances. You grant me access to Mr. Potter's home, and I'll have the papers ready by this evening and the Daily Prophet will have a special edition prepared for the morning. Is that satisfactory?"

The twinkling intensified as Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Indeed. Might I ask who you plan on sending to Mr. Potter's residence?"

"Dawlish and his team and Dolores. I trust them."

_Excellent._

"Just allow me a moment to register your presences with the wards and you can be on your way..."

---

Harry's grip on the Chef's general knife grew tighter as rumbling voices filtered through the back door.

"Merlin, its fucking freezing."

"Shut your gob Perkins, we've got a job to do. You need to learn to deal with the cold. You think the Dark Lord would care for your sob story?"

"What? I'm just calling it as I feel it and its bollocks freezing out here. Fuc-"

"Shut that mouth or I'll do it for you." Harry could hear the audible clomp as Perkin's mouth was clamped shut. "Now, what do you say we do? Kill the whelp, give the corpse to the Dark Lord and record resistance and accidental fatality in the Ministry logs or grab him alive?"

_Voldemort and Ministry logs? Who the hell...?_

"Simple is best. Kill him," said a high girlish and disgustingly syrupy voice.

Harry smothered a hiss, well aware of whose voice that was.

_Umbridge._

"Dawlish; Perkins and I will come through the front door. When I cast the reductor curse on the door, that's your cue to move in and provide cover for us," ordered Umbridge authoritatively. "Aim to kill. We don't have long before someone discovers what we've done."

"Yes ma'am."

The crunch of packed snow, freshly fallen powder that had hardened over night from the unrelenting wind and piercingly cold temperatures, and the soft breathing of Dawlish on the other side of the threshold was all that Harry could hear.

_Umbridge. Certified bitch. And a Death Eater too? Maybe I'll start my little reign of terror with you three.  
_

There was an abrupt vacuum of sound, the stomping footsteps had died away, and even Dawlish seemed to have stopped breathing as the rhythmic pattern of inhalation and exhalation was nowhere to be heard.

Then, as his adrenaline rush peaked and time came to creeping halt, there was a screech, "Reducto!"

The blast was deafening, the supersonic shockwaves washed over the home as diminutive objects, not already toppled over from Harry's erratic path from his room, careened over their respective surface tops. Spear-shaped wedges from the front door and its frame were stabbed into the seashell walls with ease as dust, smoke and particle plaster quickly accumulated within the sitting room.

"Go!"

The back door's steel handle turned with a click. A whoosh of frigid winter air and the rear entrance was swung open with jarring force as Dawlish charged through, his wand brandished in front of him, and the beginnings of the killing curse already on its tip; a sickly neon green that faintly lit his path.

The Death Eater glanced around the room quickly, his squinting eyes trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Hey asshole."

Dawlish spun around to where the voice had come from, but was already caught unawares as Harry grabbed his wand arm. With a hard yank, he twisted the corrupt auror's arm against the natural joint of his elbow, trapping the man in a painful twist. Grinning madly, Harry punched the contorted arm.

A nauseating snap that only cracked further with the momentum of the two struggling bodies echoed off the walls of the room as the older man yelled, agony coursing through his body. His wand fell uselessly to the floor, his hand made insensate from the shredded nerves and broken bones.

Harry viciously kicked the back of Dawlish's legs.

The legs buckling upon themselves, the man dropped to his knees, his ensnared arm wrapped around his back.

Running entirely on instinct, Harry jammed the Chef's knife into Dawlish's exposed throat, savagely thrusting the blade upward into his skull.

Blood gushed out like a crimson geyser as the warmth of Dawlish's life essence soaked Harry's hands, bare chest and baggy sweatpants. He set the dying body free, bleeding out like a stuck pig, and stepped back to survey the damage.

The auror gurgled as he frantically clawed at his torn throat. His pleading eyes locked on to the hollowed green orbs the wizarding world had grown familiar with. The chilling gaze was the last thing Dawlish's rapidly failing brain recalled as he slumped to the ground with one final bubbling choke.

The first casualty of war had been tallied.


End file.
